


Urgent Care

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Disabled Character, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Polyamory, Recovery, Sex Work, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: It's been a long time since Tony was able to express his submissive side—too long, in a world where submission is something of a biological imperative. He visits a special facility, meets therapist Steve Rogers, and heals enough that he can jump back into the dating game and find someone tall, dark, and dominant (so what if he's missing an arm?)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 377
Collections: Marvel Polyship Bingo 2020, Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	Urgent Care

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Marvel Polyshipping Bingo (Sex Worker) and Tony Stark Bingo (Dom/sub). 
> 
> Note: the Steve/Tony relationship in this is a professional one, but since they're doing D/s stuff in a professional context, I thought it would earn the tag. 
> 
> CW: some hints at shitty past D/s relationships + a brief mention of corporal punishment by a parent
> 
> One more note: This takes place in a D/s AU world where dynamics are biologically determined. This will become evident in various spots in the fic, but mentioning it here in case it's not 100% clear from the outset.

The waiting room is calming, but in a way that is obviously  _ supposed _ to be calming, which doesn’t make Tony any more calm. His minor celebrity status doesn’t get him any special treatment, so he’s stuck sitting in a cream-colored armchair with the rest of the general population, tapping at his phone since he wouldn’t be caught dead flipping through the offered magazines like  _ Sub’s Life _ or  _ Dynamics Today _ . He’s also avoided the sofas, as they might invite actual human contact, and he’s going to get plenty of that this evening. The one saving grace is that the few sad sacks waiting for their appointments are too caught up in their own problems to notice his familiar profile, and the receptionist is just blasé.

“Stark?” a petite brunette (nurse? assistant?) calls from an open doorway. Tony quickly rises to his feet, following her to the back before anyone puts two (his last name) and two (Versace suit, blue-tinted Armani shades) together. At least there’s no checking his weight or blood pressure—she just escorts him to a room down a bland hallway and closes the door behind him, leaving him alone with the professional already inside. 

The therapist—sex worker?—isn’t exactly what Tony expected, nor does he openly defy those vague expectations. He’s clean-cut, blonde, broadly muscled up top, but also somehow unassuming as he flips through Tony’s paperwork, a pair of slightly hipsterish glasses perched on his nose. The room is large, outfitted with a big bed against the far wall, under large tinted windows—decent view of the Upper West Side skyline, though nothing like his own vantage point from the Tower—and a few other furniture options. Spanking bench, St. Andrew’s cross, toy cabinet, all standard, though there are some anomalies, including the plush cream rug, deep brown walls, and a full bookcase. The light’s off in the en suite, but Tony can see that it’s large, with an unusually deep tub. The whole thing’s not as dungeon-like as Tony had pictured, and he’s been to a fair few dungeons in his day, even if it has been a while. This is much more like a standard therapist’s office, with kinky additions.

Closer to the door, there’s a little lounge-like area with a long sofa and two comfortable chairs. The therapist is seated in one of them, looking up with a smile after a moment with the paperwork. 

“Mr. Stark. Please have a seat. All right if I call you Tony?”

“Pretty sure that’s not all you’re going to be calling me,” Tony mutters as he lowers himself onto the sofa, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee, but he doesn’t object. 

The man’s tone is mild, pleasant, as he puts the stack of paperwork down on an end table. He has a deep voice, naturally soothing, probably part of what makes him good at his job. “We’ll see. We start with an intake interview, though. I’m Steve Rogers, and I’m a senior therapist here.”

“Senior?” Tony tugs his shades off one-handed, slips them into his jacket pocket. “You can’t be past thirty.”

“And yet.” Steve smiles again, but it’s genuine and not the condescending leer Tony’s used to from doms who know his dynamic status. “I’ve been doing this since grad school apprenticeships, six years full time. And I don’t think you’d be seeing me if I hadn’t been thoroughly vetted,” he adds, not unkindly. “I spoke to Miss Potts personally.”

“Great,” Tony grimaces. “Did she give you all the sordid details, then?”

“No. She told me that it’s been several years since you were willing to take a dominant partner, after a traumatic experience, and that she recommended you seek out the services of a professional. Otherwise, the focus of our conversation was on my qualifications, and once she decided to select me as your therapist, the required NDAs and the nature of your medical device.” Steve doesn’t look directly at Tony’s chest, but his own hand rubs over the metal housing out of habit. “I’d like to hear from you what you’re seeking, what therapeutic goals you’d like to focus on, but first I want to be clear about what is and isn’t going to happen here. Does that sound good to you?” It doesn’t exactly sound like a question, but it also doesn’t infuriate Tony the way commands often do, so he nods acquiescence.

“Sure. Might as well.”

“All right. First things first, this is an urgent care facility for submissives, not a pro-dom service or sex therapy. We don’t have to go through the specifics of each of those services, but I’m happy to discuss other options in more detail if you’re curious or we decide that this modality isn’t for you. Some of the key distinctions are that we won’t engage in direct genital contact in this room, and nothing will happen here that’s purely for my benefit. Your health and well-being are my sole focus, which might be a little different from what you’re used to in a casual scene.”

“No kidding,” Tony mutters, and Steve just smiles that pleasant smile again.

“To that end, there are no reward-punishment dynamics here. One of the core tenets of my profession, which happens to be one of my core personal beliefs as well, is that all submissives deserve compassion, attention, and touch, regardless of behavior or circumstances. We find that treating those things as an expectation in our sessions, rather than offering them as a reward or taking them away as a punishment, is most therapeutically beneficial to those who need it.”

“To those fucked up enough to need it, you mean,” Tony corrects, raising an eyebrow. Steve doesn’t take the bait, though, just shrugs. 

“That’s certainly not my opinion of the clients I serve, Tony. But you could’ve guessed that.” Tony doesn’t disagree, and he gestures with a hand to let Steve continue. “Everyone reacts in different ways, but everyone who qualifies for my services has at least a fairly dire need. Whatever you need to be able to receive services is all right by me. If you need to be aggressive, or contrary, or extra solicitous… I’ve seen it all, and nothing is going to bait me into punishing you, nor do you need to behave in a particular way to receive a reward. It’s not about what I want as a dominant in this scenario, because I’m not the focus of our work together. You can think of me as a tool, if you like, to facilitate what you need.”

“You’re  _ my _ tool?” Tony snarks, giving Steve an obvious up-and-down look as he radiates dominant energy the best he knows how—which is pretty damn well, for a submissive—arms stretched along the back of the sofa and trademark smirk in place. “Didn’t think you swung that way, Doctor.”

He gets another smile but Steve doesn’t react, otherwise, failing to show the offense Tony had half-expected despite his calm manner. “Like I was just saying,” the therapist responds in a gently teasing tone. “It’s not about how I swing, Tony. And I’m not a doctor, by the way, but you can call me that if you enjoy it.”

Tony frowns a little, slightly annoyed that this man isn’t easier to rile. He’d half expected to get thrown out in the first five minutes, but Steve Rogers is fairly implacable. 

“Something else that isn’t going to happen,” Steve continues. “You’re not here for me to push your limits. In most cases, that isn’t what our clients need. I expect you to communicate, and I’ll ask you questions to determine whether any discomfort is therapeutic or counterproductive, and adjust accordingly. If you’re unable to communicate, that’s fine, but I won’t do anything to you that I’m not comfortable with as your therapist. We use standard safewords here, red for a full stop, yellow for a check-in, and a triple tap if you’re unable to speak for any reason. Like I said, this isn’t about me, and I won’t have any expectations of you outside of our sessions. If that’s what you need, then we can certainly offer a referral.” Steve shifts a little in his seat, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his fingers laced together. “So. That covers our ground rules. Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, why you’re here and what you hope to get out of this?”

“I’m here because my PA’s freaking out,  _ Steve _ . Hate to disappoint you, but this isn’t exactly my idea of a fun Friday evening.”

“You’re not disappointing me,” Steve says, simple and even. Tony  _ hates _ the frisson of pleasure that runs down his spine at that basic statement in response to what had only been a turn of phrase, not even a real concern. “Can you tell me more about what’s freaking her out?”

“I’m apparently ‘dangerously unbalanced,’” Tony bites back flippantly, making air quotes with his fingers. “She doesn’t like me passing out in front of staff, it’s bad for morale.”

“So you’ve been experiencing severe submission withdrawal,” Steve summarizes, his voice still low and warm and unbothered. “Have the symptoms been accelerating over time?”

“Yeah, sure, they’ve been accelerating, pretty sure you know that already,” Tony growls. “Look, you want to know my goals? Obviously I’m fucked up. I need not to be fucked up, as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t be here if I could avoid it,” he admits, which for him is saying a lot. No one knows how bad things have gotten for him, physically and mentally, not even Pepper, but he still wishes he could ride it out. The last thing he wants to do is be vulnerable with another human being, curse his biology all to hell.

“All right,” Steve says, warm and accepting. “Anything in particular you like to do with a dominant partner that you’d like to try here? A particular tone you’re looking for?”

“Just do your worst,” Tony grumbles, deeply suspicious that this mild-mannered helping profession type is going to be able to do exactly fuck all for him. He’s eager to get it over with. But for Steve’s part, he just gives Tony a long, assessing look, sitting perfectly still. When he finally pushes up to his feet, he crosses the minimal space to the sofa without fanfare and fists a hand hard in Tony’s hair, guiding Tony’s head to his hip. 

“You don’t want my worst,” Steve declares, half an octave lower and deliciously confident. Again without his permission, a tendril of  _ want _ crawls up Tony’s spine and he hates himself for it. “I might give you my best,” Steve muses almost idly, scratching the fingernails of his other hand up the back of Tony’s neck.

“I hope so, with what Pepper’s paying you,” Tony muses. He doesn’t actually know what Steve’s rates are, nor does he care, he’s mostly just trying to keep his brain focused and fixed in the present. It’s too tempting, with how long it’s been, to follow the train of thought that wants to be  _ worthy _ of Steve’s best, that wants to be  _ his _ best for him. If anything drove him to accept this, in fact, it’s that—Tony doesn’t like being vulnerable, here in this room, but he likes it far less when his body decides it might be reasonable to submit to whichever asshat of the hour wants his money and influence turned towards them. 

“I want you on your knees,” Steve says next, a seeming non-sequitur. It’s phrased oddly politely, and Tony kind of wants to respond with a quip, “it’s good to have desires” or something similar. But that deeper, wounded part of him is desperate for whatever it can get, and he slips down onto the thick plush carpeting in spite of himself. “Good boy,” Steve murmurs, and Tony’s little snort of disbelief is barely out of his mouth before Steve tips his head back with the grip in Tony’s hair and gently slaps his face. “ _ Good _ boy,” he repeats insistently, and Tony hisses at the sting in his cheek. Steve looks down at him speculatively, rubbing his fingers over the contrast of textures that make up Tony’s chin.

“Do you want to do as I say?” Steve asks, all mild again, and Tony frowns. His mouth twitches, brain stuck between the possibilities of snarky or deeply (too deeply) honest. Before he actually makes up his mind, Steve slaps the other cheek. Then he gets down on one knee, warm and looming slightly over Tony even down here on the floor with him, and brushes Tony’s ear with his lips. “I think you do,” he whispers, one big hand loosely encircling Tony’s throat. Emotion wells up in him, hot and sudden, and he blinks hard to force down any rogue tears. Stark men do  _ not _ cry. Before he can verbalize anything, though, Steve’s bearing him down to the rug, splayed on his back between the sofa and the chairs, warm soft lips descending on his. 

“You’re safe, Tony,” Steve coos between kisses. Tony  _ hates _ himself in this moment, but also can’t bring himself to stop it. The hand at his throat tightens, just a hair, and something warm loosens at the base of Tony’s spine, a rush of feeling threatening to overwhelm him. “That’s it,” Steve purrs. “Nice and easy for me.” He pinches a tiny bit of skin at the inside of Tony’s wrist, digging in with his nails, and the first tears spring free. Tony’s flooded with humiliation, but then Steve hurts him again, and a cloud of sensation starts to blanket out everything else.

~*~

_ Three months later _

His contract with Steve is coming to an end, but Tony’s less bothered by it than he thought he might be, a month ago. For a little while his sessions felt like an addiction, like something he’d never be able to give up now that he has them. But at the same time, they’re doing what they’re supposed to do—he feels more balanced, stronger, like he might even be able to  _ date _ after this without the looming fear of what submission looks like after Afghanistan hanging over his head. The fact is, it can look like a lot of things.

Tonight it looks like Tony’s head in Steve’s lap, electricity arcing and skimming over his naked body from the violet wand in Steve’s hand. They’ve tried many kinds of sensation play together, among other things, and while Tony used to hate how cuddly he can get, Steve’s always encouraging, never condescending towards him. There’s never any humiliation, even when he might be able to take a bit of it. Steve’s half-hard under his cheek, but he has no obligation to do anything about it, which is nice. (The fact that Steve  _ does _ get hard for him is also nice, flattering. He wonders if the therapists get to take care of that kind of a problem after sessions, or if they’re supposed to go home first. Not everyone has the luxury of a private executive bathroom, after all.)

“Would you like me to spank you, baby?” Steve purrs when Tony’s ass wiggles towards the electricity, the buzz now tracing from his tailbone and further down. He imagines it’s a laser, slicing him open, precision-cut, and hums a little, nodding into Steve’s lap. 

“All right. Over my knees, then, up you go,” Steve orders pleasantly, cutting the power to the wand and setting it aside. Tony shuffles up, letting Steve scoot forward on the sofa, and then drapes himself over Steve’s legs ass up, torso dangling. The off-balance position had made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable the first time they tried, but it’s become one of his favorite things. Sometimes, when Tony feels uncomfortable with an activity, Steve lets it go, but other times he prods deeper until they hit the core of something important. Tony’s not sure how he decides which times call for which approach, but that’s why Steve’s the professional. Tony’s whole job is to relax and take it, which is harder than it looks but also fabulously rewarding. 

“Good boy, just like that,” Steve coos, giving Tony’s bottom a few firm pats to warm up. He’s never sparing with praise, and at first Tony hated how much it fills him up, but he’s learning to adjust. Steve loves to call Tony a good boy, loves to dole out pet names. Tony joked once, during their aftercare time, about how he could imagine a tough-as-nails power bottom coming in here and getting called “sweetheart” and “baby,” but Steve just laughed and reminded Tony that everyone is different. He wonders what it is in him that inspired Steve to adopt this particular persona, but he also doesn’t want to ask too many questions, not sure he’ll like what he finds.

“That’s it. Just relax for me, baby,” Steve murmurs, rhythmically increasing the pressure and distributing slaps across the meat of Tony’s ass and midway down his thighs. When he goes harder, he shifts to using the heel of his hand more, a deeper thud that Tony prefers to the stingier slaps that occasionally rouse memories of Howard’s belt. The subtle distinction shifts Tony’s headspace from wanting to kick and flinch away to something he can relax into, take a real pounding if Steve wants to give him one. He doesn’t, generally—impact play is something Tony likes, but not usually the focus of their sessions. He doesn’t know exactly why, but since the first session he’s left it up to Steve to decide on the menu of activities for their time together. His paperwork denotes his limits and preferences, and that’s contribution enough.

By the time Steve starts to wind down Tony’s ass feels very warm and maybe a little bruised, and his erection is nestled into the space between Steve’s thighs. Steve doesn’t draw attention to it, though, just shifts to lighter pats, and eventually long, soothing strokes over Tony’s body, until he tugs Tony back up to curl into his lap. Steve’s strong enough to lift him into the position he wants, and Tony likes that, the way it makes him feel small. Bigger men could make him flinch, with his experience (a couple of the guards in the caves, Obidiah motherfucking Stane and his condescending nature before Tony discovered his role in the Ten Rings’ plot), but he finds that he’s much more likely to be triggered by a cool, calculating look in the eyes, a certain callous expression. Steve is warm and pleasant and genial, even when he’s firm—calm and passionate in his dominance all at once. And there’s always this gentle care taken afterwards, when Tony gets wrapped up in a blanket and pet for what feels like an hour sometimes, if he needs it. Steve never rushes him, always holds him until he starts to come up on his own, and offers him water and protein bars and balm for any skin that needs it.

“Feelin’ good?” Steve asks after a few quiet minutes, stroking Tony’s hair. He nods against Steve’s sternum, facial hair rubbing gently against Steve’s thin t-shirt.

“Yeah. L’miss this, after,” he slurs, extra honest as he usually is after a scene.

“Hmm? What’ll you miss, sweetheart?”

“This,” Tony repeats, flailing a hand a little to encompass the sofa. “Cuddles. And stuff.”

“Aftercare?” Tony can hear the frown in his voice, but he’s not sure why. It’s not so bad for Tony to miss something from his time with Steve, is it? Too unprofessional? He matches the frown as he mumbles into Steve’s chest.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Steve corrects. “I’m just wondering… we haven’t talked about this, specifically. Is aftercare new for you?”

“Oh,” Tony nods. “Yeah. S’a Steve thing,” he smiles, petting at Steve’s hip. “Doctor Rogers’ patented special touch,” he teases using the moniker that isn’t actually correct, but something Steve will let him use when he feels like it anyway. They usually talk a bit at the end of a session, and sometimes before the next one, about the therapeutic process, Tony’s progress, things Steve has noticed that he might carry forward. Tony always listens, even if he doesn’t always plan to implement Steve’s suggestions.

“It’s not, though,” Steve argues, and he sounds more serious, even a little agitated, so Tony makes an effort to focus. “Aftercare should be a regular part of a D/s scene, ideally every time you play. Definitely after anything too serious, painplay or anything psychologically intense. It might not always look like this, but you should have  _ some _ time outside of the scene to recover, whether that’s with touch or food or conversation. Does that not sound familiar at all, Tony?”

Tony frowns, not liking the way Steve’s patient tone makes him feel a little stupid. He struggles to get his brain back online, to explain. “I mean I’ve  _ heard _ of aftercare. I just always thought it was more a thing that… softer tops do. No offense,” he adds quickly. “A lot of my flings were a little… wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Except for a couple of relationships in my twenties, and, well… Obie helped me out a few times.”

“Okay.” Steve’s gentle in his acknowledgement, stroking up and down Tony’s spine with one big hand. “What about those relationships? How did scenes usually end for you then?”

“Guess it depends.” Tony shrugs. “Sunset usually went to sleep. I’d go to do some tinkering, unless I was really fucking wiped, and then I’d sleep with her a bit. Ty would talk more. He always had some project going, so we’d talk about that.”

“All right, that can be enough sometimes,” Steve offers. “Conversation is a good way to bring you up into a more normal headspace, like we do here sometimes. If you like to work when you’re coming out of your subspace, then that’s okay too. But ideally it should be paired with some gentle touch, maybe some quiet time before you need to respond right away or switch your brain over to projects. Did either of your partners check in on your physical needs after a scene, like food or hydration, maybe massage?”

Tony can’t help but snort at the last. “Sunset liked massages plenty,” he quips. “I gave them to her all the time. But listen, Doc, not every dom is a saint. You set a pretty high bar here.”

“Maybe,” Steve concedes. “I’d argue that it’s a reasonable standard, though. Aftercare is certainly part of the basics they cover in dynamic classes after you register.” He shifts his hand to Tony’s hair, nails combing along his scalp and making him shiver with his whole body. The conversation is bringing him up, but he’s not going to pull away from the admittedly healing touch that’s on offer. As for dynamic classes, Tony doesn’t admit that he didn’t even attend the submissive ones, as it was easy enough for Howard to pull strings and get him an exemption, back when he was 16 and already in grad school. “You know…” Steve continues, “we don’t really focus on clients’ long-term wellbeing in a dynamic, here, obviously it’s called urgent care for a reason... but there are therapists who specialize in the D/s dynamic and helping submissives to develop healthy skills for relationships. I’d like to make you a referral.”

“Great,” Tony snorts. “More therapy. Just what I need.”

“You might be surprised,” Steve chides with a little nudge to Tony’s side, smiling at him. “Even if you don’t go to therapy, at least promise me that you’ll remember how we do things here and look for a similar level of care, when you’re getting to know a new partner. We’ve talked about dating… I’m not saying you can’t ever have a casual hook-up and take care of yourself after, but if you’re going to end up in a relationship, that kind of rapport is important. There are things that self-care just doesn’t cover…” Steve gives the back of Tony’s neck a gentle squeeze, and he goes completely pliant in Steve’s arms, possibly illustrating the point. “You’re beautifully responsive to touch, Tony. And I know… you came here because of a specific trauma response you needed to address. I get that. I’d just hate for you to miss out on an opportunity to get more of your needs met, because it doesn’t seem to fall within the original brief. You know, it’s not at all uncommon, when you’re working on acute trauma, that it brings things up, and you have more to work on down the line. Sure as hell was my experience.”

“Mm?” Tony inquires, having a little trouble with words as Steve continues to massage and caress the submissive trigger points at his neck. All submissives have them, to some extent, but Tony’s have always been uniquely sensitive. 

“I’ve got my own Afghanistan,” Steve admits, his voice gone quiet and contemplative. It’s not the first personal detail he’s shared, but Tony can feel the weight of it in the silence as he chooses his words. “My boyfriend… he was captured outside Kandahar, my first year in solo practice. He spent several months as a POW. Never did like talk therapy before that, despite the fact that I refer people all the time now, but…” Steve shrugs. “I had to do my own work, and it opened some things up that had nothing to do with the immediate trauma. I ended up finding a somatic practitioner, and a bodyworker, and ending up with a whole long-term care team. It feels selfish sometimes, but having that support has done worlds for me. Not just with one or two problems, but… my whole outlook. My work here. My relationship. I’m just saying, it’s worth considering.”

“Okay,” Tony murmurs, willing to concede the point for now. Steve lets it go, then, working in silence, and as Tony basks in the touch he thinks on what Steve’s getting at. It’s not that he hasn’t considered the fact that this, how Steve is with him, is not just a return to comfort with pre-Afghanistan dynamics for Tony. Steve’s different, the way he is with Tony is different. If he’s honest, he’s never had anything quite like this, and while he’s not sure he’s ready to believe that this  _ is _ the norm outside of a professional context, if it is… then maybe his previous dominant partners have a few things to answer for. And yet, he hardly came here expecting to unmoor his whole fucking life, a life that aside from submissive withdrawal symptoms had been going reasonably well to this point. With Obie in jail, his heart problem adequately managed by the arc reactor in his chest, and Stark Industries finally showing consistently increased profit margins through revolutionary work in consumer electronics and clean energy, all Tony wanted was to manage his immediate crisis and get Pepper out of his hair. Yeah, his sessions with Steve have made him more optimistic about the idea of finding a regular hookup of some kind, a dominant partner or two to see on a regular basis and keep his levels even, but what Steve’s suggesting? Sounds like a fuck of a lot of digging, and if there’s one thing Tony prefers to do with his past, it’s keep it barred shut with a steel lock on the door.

Still… whether he seeks this kind of thing out again or not, there’s no reason not to enjoy it now. And so with that thought, he boxes the line of thinking off in his brain and tries to focus instead on strong hands and warm skin, and the soothing thump of another man’s heart in his ear.

~*~

_ A year later _

Immediately after his contract with Steve Rogers, Tony has to admit, he wasn’t exactly a model of good behavior. He drove Pepper crazy for a few months, forgot about his plan to start dating, got wrapped up in his work. But eventually he remembered to seek out dominant company, usually at certain reliable bars, and after a few lacklustre scenes followed by another few months’ break, he stumbled upon the revelation that Bucky Barnes has proven to be. Tough, but never condescending, muscle-bound with a military bearing but also missing an arm on the left side and generally polite to submissives, Barnes has turned into a consistent-enough public hookup that Tony’s starting to wonder whether he should invite the man to the Tower. He doesn’t show any signs of recognizing Tony, and while that’s not a sure thing, it’s been years since Tony was a regular fixture in the gossip pages. They haven’t talked a lot about their lives, but depending on how long Barnes was in the service, it’s reasonable that he wouldn’t have a way to place the Stark name with Tony’s face. These days, Tony’s more likely to be on the cover of  _ Forbes _ or  _ Business Insider _ , and Barnes doesn’t seem like a guy who closely follows corporate America.

What he does know about Bucky Barnes:

  * His first name is actually James
  * That gave Pepper enough to run a background check, but she doesn’t tell him any of the details
  * He served in the Army, and doesn’t care to talk about it
  * His work is unpredictable, but he’s often off Monday nights
  * He prefers Star Trek to Star Wars (points!)
  * He usually drinks lager, cause it’s cheap, but he appreciates a good whisky, and especially bourbon (nor does he stand on ceremony enough to refuse a submissive buying him a glass of the good stuff)
  * He feels a little guilty about his occasional post-fuck cigarette, but he finds the nicotine soothing
  * He’s delightfully hung, curses like a sailor, and kisses like it’s his goddamned job
  * Tony kind of wants to get him in an actual bed, like, stat



Still, the Tower means the penthouse, and the penthouse means Barnes figuring out that he owns the building, and even if he’s not much up on SI as a company, he has to know what a Starkphone is. Depending on his line of work (and Tony hasn’t asked), he’s likely to encounter Stark Tech there as well, whether in the form of the energy that runs a manufacturing plant or the tech at a point-of-sale. And besides all that, the penthouse is Tony’s personal space, coming with a level of vulnerability he hasn’t shared since before Afghanistan, when he used to tag team dominant conquests with the tour-de-force that is JARVIS and Pepper Potts, heading downstairs to his workshop while his two best people handled whatever flavor of the week was sleeping in his Malibu bedroom. In New York, the workshop level is still Tony’s sanctum, but the penthouse has more of a personal feel to it than the Malibu mansion ever did, a space that is entirely his own. After Obie, his security system is rock solid, and only Rhodey and Pepper have actually seen his personal quarters.

It’s that logic that has him subtly enquiring as to whether Barnes has a place, as the man’s nibbling down his neck in a corner of the bar, having wedged Tony between the wall and a pinball machine. 

“Yeah… I share with my boyfriend,” he explains (no surprise, he’s mentioned an open relationship before) “but he should be at work for a few more hours.”

“Perfect,” Tony purrs. “We could go to a club if you prefer, but…”

“...but I’d really like to lay you out in my bed,” Barnes finishes, his grin sharklike and eager. Tony laughs and lays a quick kiss on his mouth. 

“Exactly. C’mon.” He tugs at Barnes’ hand, stopping quickly at the bar to close out his tab and then leading the way to the garage where he parked. Of course, he’d been prepared to change course and redirect them to one of the many clubs in the city catering to semi-public play, but he can’t help but be a little curious about his regular hookup’s personal space. The car he leads them to is swank, but not one of his more obvious luxury toys, a black Audi with most of the pricey additions under the hood. Barnes whistles appreciatively, running his hand over the paint job, but doesn’t comment further as he slides into the passenger seat. 

“You want me to plug it into the GPS?” Barnes offers as Tony starts the ignition, but Tony just waves him off. 

“Not unless you’re taking us into the depths of Queens or something. I know the city well.”

“All right,” Barnes laughs. “Take the Midtown Tunnel and then the Pulaski Bridge into Greenpoint, you good?”

“Oh, I’m  _ very _ good,” Tony purrs with a saucy grin as he pulls out of the garage, scanning his ticket and trying not to get too distracted by Barnes’ hand on his thigh while he pays the night rate. He's twisted a little in the seat, towards Tony, so that he can reach across his own body to manage it, and Tony's just slightly charmed that the man can't keep his hand to himself for the duration of a single car ride.

“So I’ve seen,” Barnes teases, once they’re pulling into the light nighttime traffic. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing how bad you can be, either.”

“My assistant would warn you not to encourage me. But I don’t usually listen to her.”

“Hope you’re not bringing her into bed with you, either. I mean I know I’m in an open relationship, but usually we negotiate threesomes.”

Tony smirks and shakes his head. “It’s been a while since my party days, Barnes, sorry to disappoint. Also, if I propositioned Pepper, she’d murder me. Small detail.”

“I do like you alive and breathing. Among other things you can do with that mouth.”

“Charmer.” Tony makes a quick right at the red light on 2nd Ave, sliding in just in front of a yellow cab, and weaves into traffic heading downtown. “So, Greenpoint. You work in Manhattan, or just cruise?”

Barnes laughs and squeezes Tony’s thigh, where his hand is dangerously high, but doesn’t venture into actual road-handjob territory. “My boyfriend works uptown. The night you and I met, we’d gone out to dinner in Koreatown before his shift, and I figured I’d stop into that bar for a drink, see if anyone small, dark, and promising was hanging around.”

Tony has to roll his eyes at that line, hand skimming over Barnes’ before he downshifts. “What, and I was so good that you came back just to see me?”

“Well… yeah,” Barnes admits, so straightforward that Tony does a bit of a double-take as he pulls to a stop at a light. 

“Huh.” He eyes the other man speculatively, stormy blue eyes not hesitating to meet Tony’s, sharp stubbled jaw lit by a streetlamp, long hair pulled back into a low bun. He licks his lips and decides he can afford to be a little uncool in response to that admission. “I usually circulate the bars. But I came back. After that night.” Barnes’ mouth curves into a small private smile, and Tony only reluctantly turns his attention back to the road as traffic starts to move again. Barnes’ hand creeps a centimeter higher.

~*~

As much fun as Tony’s had over the past month and a half, give or take, indulging in occasional bar meetups with Barnes that usually lead to some combination of rough kissing, pinches and bites to whatever skin Tony’s clothing exposes, and mutually enthusiastic bathroom blowjobs, he’s definitely asking himself why he didn’t suggest a change of venue sooner. What he thinks of as “drive-by domming” encounters certainly tide him over, but now he has a chance to lean much harder into his submission, the hours they spend together quickly melting away as he loses all sense of time under Barnes’ rough hands and rougher rope. He gets Tony naked, accepting the explanation of the glowing blue “medical device” in his chest with only a brief raised eyebrow (and thank God so few people know about how he survived Afghanistan, or else it’d be much more identifying), and only asks questions insofar as they pertain to what Barnes can do to his body.

What he does do to Tony’s body is quite fantastic, binding him in hemp with efficient movements and a lot of physical contact, roughly tugging Tony into his body, turning him around as needed and shoving him face-up onto the bed when it’s time to bind his legs. The bondage has him floating, but the frenzied kisses even more so. Barnes loves to kiss, that much has been obvious from the first meeting, and Tony loves the way he claims dominance with his teeth and tongue, stubble giving Tony the faintest red burn around his own stylized facial hair. Once he’s got Tony trussed up and floating, Barnes gets out the lube and fingers him nice and slow, stimulating his prostate with a deep, searching rub. 

The lack of an arm on the left side means that Barnes is sitting on his heels to stay balanced, that he can’t lean over to kiss Tony while he does this, but his gaze is just as intense as his kisses. Tony’s frankly impressed at what Barnes  _ can _ do in spite of the missing limb, how he’s figured out ways to use his body, his legs, and even his teeth to work the rope the way he wants it to go. The harness isn’t super elaborate, as these things go, but it works, and it definitely holds. Tony can feel the deep bite of the tie against his thighs, frogged open, his chest above the arc reactor and his ribs below it. His breathing isn’t restricted, but he can feel the bondage every time he inhales. When he jerks in response to Barnes’ ministrations, it only heightens his awareness of the rope.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Barnes murmurs. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Good,” Tony rasps, licking his lips. “...contained,” he settles on, the best descriptor he can think of for the way the altered state pulls his focus tight and settles all his manic energy. Bondage is particularly good for that, as if the physical container somehow creates a mental harness, as well. Maybe that doesn’t all get through, but Barnes gives him a satisfied smile.

“Good. I like you contained,” he teases, his voice dipping and making the words sound much dirtier than they actually are. He bends a little, sets his teeth into the meat of Tony’s calf, and Tony cries out in pain. Before he has the urge to really squirm away, though, Barnes lifts his head and soothes the stinging skin with his tongue. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Tony spits out suddenly, rocking into the three fingers buried in his ass. Barnes laughs, sounding delighted.

“I wanna,” he agrees. “Kinda wanna make you wait, too, though. Give you something to look forward to…”

Tony groans, turning his head to the side and rubbing his cheek against Barnes’ pillow. “How about you fuck me now, so I know exactly what to look forward to later?” he suggests, managing a surprising amount of lucidity for his current state.

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“Yeah,” Tony mumbles. “Fuck me, Sir.”

“Hmm. I like that,” Barnes confesses, soft. He withdraws his fingers slowly, exerting pressure with every centimeter of motion until they’re free, and then leans over to grab for a condom packet. “Open that for me? I don’t wanna rip it with my teeth,” he explains, tossing the foil square onto Tony’s chest. Appreciating the consideration, Tony grabs the packet a little awkwardly, with his upper arms bound to his sides but his forearms free, and fishes the condom out. When he looks up again, Barnes has shoved his jeans and underwear down, and Tony inhales sharply at the sight of his proud, red erection. It’s not the first time he’s seen it, sure, but it’s still damned pretty. Barnes shifts to kneel snug up against Tony’s ass, to get where he can reach, and Tony licks his lips as he carefully rolls the condom down that lovely hard shaft. The position is awkward, and he feels quite exposed, but it’s not a  _ bad  _ feeling, exactly.

“Is that a big dick in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Tony drawls happily, and Barnes barks a laugh.

“Ain’t got pockets right now, sugar.” Before Tony can say anything about stating the obvious, though, there’s a blunt pressure against his asshole and he’s focusing single-mindedly on breathing out, making himself relax through the initial burn. A soft moan comes loose as Barnes works himself in, nice and slow, little minute motions of his hips to help Tony adjust. Once he’s halfway in, he releases his own dick and moves his hand to the center of Tony’s harness, tugging there for leverage. The rope pulls taut against Tony’s back and he inhales sharply, shifting his hips to accommodate Barnes’ motions.

It takes a few minutes for him to really adjust, his dick half-wilting in the process, but Barnes is patient. Eventually they find a rhythm, with Barnes sitting on the balls of his feet for leverage, Tony’s lower half speared on his lap, and his upper back on the bed. The way Tony’s legs are tied, bent at the knee, it feels precarious even though his engineer’s mind knows he’s safely balanced. That feeling heightens the sense of submission and eventually, with Barnes tugging hard on the chest harness as he thrusts deep inside Tony’s body, he lets his limbs relax into the bondage, trusting Barnes to handle logistics. His eyes fall shut and his focus further narrows to the rocking of the bed and the deep prostate stimulation. He can’t come like this, but he certainly can float on it, and he does, zoning out completely on the sensations until Barnes loses his rhythm and comes with a deep groan and his hips pressed all the way up against Tony’s ass. 

“Fuck. Hang on sweetheart, just a second.”

“Mmm,” Tony helpfully contributes. He feels happy and hazy, and mumbles a little bit of discontent only when Barnes shifts him a bit and slips out of his body. 

“There you are, easy does it,” Barnes murmurs, helping him to lie flat before he pulls the condom off and discards it somewhere. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tony agrees, blinking his eyes open and managing a soft, stupid grin up at the other man. Barnes only laughs, then bends over and without warning, sucks Tony’s dick into his mouth.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, fuck fuck…” Tony babbles. His erection had filled all the way out again through the course of the fucking, but he only realizes how close he is when Barnes is sucking him like it’s a goddamned command, and he doesn’t last long before shooting straight down the man’s throat. “Fuuuuck,” he groans, just in case it wasn’t clear the first time, and Barnes starts laughing as soon as he’s swallowed.

“Yeah, good summary, there, Tony,” he teases, climbing up on the bed and leaning on his shoulder so that he can rearrange Tony’s body with his good arm, pushing his knees together so that he topples over onto his side in a little spoon. “Comfy?” His large body curls up easily around Tony, strong at his back, and Tony lets out a happy sigh. 

“Mmmm-hmm.”

“Right. Well. You just relax, sweetheart,” Barnes offers fondly, stroking over Tony’s hip. He’s already asleep.

~*~

It’s after midnight when Tony rouses fully, and at this point Barnes is sleeping soundly next to him. He takes quick stock of his surroundings and notices a few things: one, he’s no longer in bondage, and he has vague memories of sleepily mumbling at Barnes when he removed the ropes, maybe an hour or so earlier. Two, he hears the sound of a television from the living room of the one-bedroom apartment. Three, he has to pee.

_ Oops _ , he thinks as he carefully extracts himself and moves into the attached bathroom. Probably not the best form to crash out after a scene in the bed your scene partner shares with his boyfriend, but then, Barnes never said anything about it one way or the other. Not Tony’s fault, then, but he still figures it’s a good idea, after he relieves himself and tugs his jeans and t-shirt on, to apologize to the boyfriend and promise to see himself out. He toes into his sneakers, grabs his wallet, and sneaks out of the bedroom quietly, wary not to wake a sleeping veteran if he can avoid it. Sure enough, on the sofa facing the TV there’s a man, blonde from the back of him, and Tony puts on his most charming sheepish grin as he approaches.

“Hey, sorry about that. We’re done, bed’s all yours,” he offers, keeping his voice low but still loud enough to be heard over the television. He’s a little surprised when the man  _ whips _ around, as if he’s seen a ghost, and he sincerely hopes he’s startled the guy rather than stumbled into a  _ not actually open _ relationship situation. It would be a shame if Barnes, both sweet and devilish as he is, turns out to be just a garden variety asshole, but he also doesn’t seem dumb enough to invite someone back to a shared apartment if he  _ is _ cheating on his boyfriend. All of this flashes through Tony’s head in an instant before his own face twists in an expression of shock.

“Tony?!”

“Steve!”

“Oh, Christ,” Steve mutters, breaking the awkward moment first with a rueful grin, scrubbing his hand over his forehead. “You’re the guy Buck’s been seeing at Reynaldo’s, huh?”

“Guilty as charged,” Tony agrees, still just kind of staring as his body tries to assimilate Steve Rogers, urgent care therapist for submissives, with the man standing in this small but well-loved Greenpoint apartment he shares with his boyfriend, wearing his glasses and khakis and the most ridiculous old-man sweater. “Uh. Sorry?”

“No,” Steve cuts in immediately, shaking his head. “Don’t  _ apologize _ , it’s… that’s great. I’m glad you… well…” His smile goes sheepish, and when he doesn’t finish his sentence, Tony opts to fill the silence.

“Barnes… he’s your Afghanistan.” He remembers what Steve had said all those months ago—first year in solo practice, months as a POW—and he’s surprised to realize how much it  _ hurts _ picturing these two particular people, both of whom he feels like he knows, if only sort of, going through the wrenching cycles of grief and recovery Steve’s story had suggested. 

“Yeah.” Steve just shrugs, then turns his back to Tony, heading into the kitchen. “You still drink coffee far too late at night?”

“Always,” Tony responds automatically, a little dazed. There’s a pass-through with a couple of bar stools, and he sits in one as Steve puts a kettle on to boil, measures coffee grounds into a French press. “So… huh. You and Barnes.”

“Bucky,” Steve corrects absently, reaching for mugs in a high cabinet that pulls his sweater up, exposing a few inches of white t-shirt. “Yeah. Since high school.”

“Sorry, I… guess I assumed. I mean, Bucky told me he had a boyfriend,” Tony clarifies quickly, not wanting to muck  _ that _ up. “And that you were open. But I guess it didn’t occur to me… I thought the mystery guy must be baseline or something.” It’s not uncommon, relationships between a dominant or submissive partner with someone who doesn’t fall on the dynamic spectrum, where there are allowances for the former to get their needs met. Much more common now than it was ten years ago, certainly. “Or maybe another sub, even, like everybody has their thing, but…”

“Does it bother you?” Steve asks, and when he does he leans forward with his forearms on the counter so that he can meet Tony’s eyes through the pass-thru, his expression unreadable but his jaw notably tight. Tony quickly offers him a smile, shakes his head.

“No, Steve, I’m not a jerk. Be as queer as you wanna be, I’ve got no problem with that. It just wasn’t the first thing that came to me.”

Steve holds the look for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough.”

“To be fair, I assumed your boyfriend was a sub, too,” Tony points out. “ _ Maybe _ baseline.” 

“Why only maybe?” Steve laughs, back to his gentle friendly self again. “Do I look like I have something against baselines?”

“No, you’re just…” Tony frowns, cocking his head to the side in an attempt to place it. “Honestly? You seem like a dom who would have a sub. Not that it’s any of my business. If you like to leave all that at work, not my place to judge.”

“Well, not all of it,” Steve smiles, then straightens up and turns to grab the kettle as it starts to whistle. “Not healthy for a dom to go without any more than it is for a sub, people are just more likely to ignore aggressive doms than they are subs who are suffering.” He shrugs, broad muscles shifting under the sweater, and pours the water slowly into the French press. “Domism, societal norms, blah blah I could rant about this all day, but… like Bucky told you, we’re open. Goes both ways.”

Tony’s tempted to ask for more information, see whether Steve dates or just goes for the occasional scene, even though it’s none of his business, really. Technically, he doesn’t know whether  _ Bucky _ dates beyond casual play, whether this counts as “dating,” but he’s not in any hurry to clarify things. Before he can say anything, though, the bedroom door swings open and Bucky ambles out, wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else. 

“Oh, hey. You met Steve.”

And then Tony realizes, and his eyes go a little wide. “Uh… we’d already met,” he mutters, cheeks heating. He didn’t think about this, actually  _ telling _ a dom he’s seeing about his history of needing urgent care, and a deep shame floods his body, making his hands tremble just slightly. Bucky frowns.

“Oh. Did you, uh… did you two…?” Bucky makes some sort of awkward gesture with his hands.

“No!” Tony blurts out before he realizes that he’s just killed the only good alternate cover story for how he and Steve  _ did _ meet. And then he decides he might as well come out with it, because otherwise Steve probably will. “Professionally. I met him professionally,” he clarifies, and his eyes drop to his lap because he can’t quite bring himself to see Bucky’s reaction to that.

“Which you don’t have to elaborate on,” Steve adds quickly, his voice soothing the way it used to be when they were doing something particularly challenging for Tony in a session, a way that makes Tony’s dick try to perk up a little in his jeans in some Pavlovian manner. “He’s aware of HIPPA and client confidentiality.”

“I’m not askin’,” Bucky confirms, and Tony’s relieved that he doesn’t  _ sound _ angry or weirded out, at least, though he still can’t quite look up. “But Steven Rogers, you are  _ not _ taking this hot little thing away from me just because you worked with him once, so don’t even try.” Tony’s eyes do shoot up at  _ that _ , a little incredulous. He feels like he should probably be offended, but also hot damn, the determined look in Bucky’s eye is doing something to him. 

“Cool your jets,” Steve replies, sounding very fond as he passes French press, mugs, and sugar through to Tony and then comes around to sit at the counter with him. “He’s not a current client. It’s… kind of unusual, but I don’t think there’s any reason you can’t see him, if Tony’s comfortable with it.”

“Uh… yes,” Tony agrees quickly, still having trouble tearing his eyes away from Bucky, all sleep-mussed and adorable but still fiercely showing his interest. “Tony’s very comfortable with it.” He reaches for his mug of coffee, hoping to hide his blush, but Bucky just looks at him like he’s got something Bucky would  _ very _ much like to sample. 

“Sorry there’s no cream,” Steve puts in, breaking the heated moment. “It’s kind of pricey at the bodega, and I haven’t had time to run to Trader Joe’s this week.”

“It’s fine,” Tony promises, stirring two sugars into his mug and taking a sip. They sit there in silence for a long moment, Bucky leaning on the back of the sofa seemingly unbothered by all this, and the longer the pause goes on, the more nervous Tony gets. Perhaps picking up on the tension, Steve makes an excuse about needing the bathroom and disappears suddenly, leaving Tony alone with this hunk of a dom who just learned one of his most embarrassing secrets. 

“Uh… sorry,” Tony mumbles, feeling his chest start to tighten. “Steve offered the coffee. I can go.”

“You don’t need to go,” Bucky offers, his tone soft with… pity? The tremor in Tony’s hands gets a little more pronounced, and he has to set the mug down, taking the deepest breath he can manage and remembering something Steve taught him about panic, before their last session. 

Five things I can see: chipped blue coffee mug, glass jar of cane sugar, stack of unopened mail, brown laminate cabinets, yellow plastic timer shaped like a lemon.

Four things I can feel: warm mug, rough jeans, smooth countertop, callouses on my fingertips. 

Three things I can…

“Tony? All right?” Bucky steps closer, into his personal space, but doesn’t actually touch him. Tony looks up and blurts out his first thought.

“Are you sure you’re still… interested?” He feels weak, small again, even though he’d come up out of his subspace in the course of his nap. Pathetic. But Bucky just frowns and reaches out to put a hand over his, firm but gentle. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Because you know Stevie?”

“Because… Steve only works with broken people,” Tony mutters, clenching his other hand into a fist. If it comes out as a bit of a sneer, it’s only disgust at himself. But Bucky doesn’t rise to the bait, his hand shifting to grab Tony’s jaw instead, forcing eye contact.

“Hey,” Bucky insists, soft in contrast to his firm grip. “Steve only works with people who need his help. And I don’t need to know why you needed his help. I never need to know that, unless you want to tell me, okay? Far as I’m concerned, he gave you something you needed at a time you needed it, and I'm glad for that. It doesn't really affect what I want to do with you.”

Tony swallows hard, daring to hope. “Such as?” he asks, trying to come off flippant or sexy but probably just sounding a little needy. Bucky grins, though, and caresses his cheek in a way that makes him feel suddenly warm.

  
“Oh, sugar. There are  _ so _ many things.”


End file.
